Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

He slides the lace down and drops it on the floor. “I love that you are always so open with me; did you know that? I love your eyes and your hair and the way you make me laugh. I fucking can’t stop looking at you. Body made for me. And I’m going to take it real slow.”

I’m already panting at the heavy-lidded look he wears. “Not too slow.”

“Fast and hard?”

“Yeah, then the slow part.”

“I’m thinking slow first.”

I moan as he falls to his knees and nudges my legs apart, his lips dancing lightly over the smooth skin of my stomach. He licks the center of me, groaning.

Writhing, I wiggle closer to him, and he laughs against me, those eyes looking up at me. “Won’t ever get tired of this. Never in a million years.”

A lone finger glides inside me, slow and easy, his tongue on my clit, circling.

My hands land in his hair.

“Just like that first night, Elena. When I took one look at you and knew I had to see you again . . .” Another finger joins the first, rubbing against my wetness until I’m gasping, my hands clenching his hair.

I topple over the edge fast and viciously, making me cry out his name as the shock waves ripple over me, my body clenching around his fingers.

He presses a kiss to my inner thigh and hovers over me.

“Mine,” he murmurs in my ear as he lays me down and slides inside me. He holds my hands above my head, lacing his fingers through mine. “Always.” His eyes gleam down at me with passion, with love.

And love . . . love is all we know.

Epilogue

JACK

A few years later

It’s March, and the windows in our house are up, letting a spring breeze blow softly into the newly remodeled kitchen. It’s also clearing the smoke out.

“A little brown on top,” Cynthia murmurs, staring down at the chicken casserole I pulled out of the oven. She pokes at it with a fork, her face expressionless, but I feel the disdain radiating from her. She just can’t help it. It makes my lips twitch.

“Did you cook it on three-fifty for forty-five minutes like Cynthia said?” Clara asks me, sliding in next to us as she sniffs.

“I’ll be honest, those Ritz Crackers are burnt,” Giselle says, throwing in her two cents.

“Just scrape off the top. All the good stuff is underneath anyway,” Topher says, working on putting ice in the glasses for the tea.

Cynthia pats me on the back. “I’m sure it’s good, dear. It is her favorite, but she can eat my macaroni and cheese.”

“All that pressure of hosting Sunday lunch. It got to him.” Clara smirks. “He was too busy singing Katy Perry and forgot about the main entrée. Amateur. He might be a Super Bowl champion, but when it comes to cooking for his wife . . .”

“Katy Perry’s ‘Firework’ is stellar,” I murmur. “Did I tell you Scotty is coming? Yep. Any minute he’ll be knocking at the door.”

Her face flames. “You hussy!”

“Hmm, he jumped at the invitation when he brought the mail on Friday. I personally invited him.” My eyes gleam.

“You just wait. The next time you come in for a haircut, I’m gonna cut it all off.” She glowers at me.

Cynthia lasers her attention on her sister. “Just marry the man. Look at Jack; he made Elena official years ago. You’re gonna get old soon, and then what will you do? Be a forty-something virgin?”

“I’m going to set the table!” She marches off, and we all laugh.

“She’s really going to fix her lipstick.” Giselle chuckles.

We gaze down at the terrible, awful chicken casserole. “I really wanted to do it right.”

Cynthia gives me a hug. “Oh, honey, she’ll eat anything—especially if you make it. Plus, between keeping up with you and that job with the lingerie company, she’s too tired to care.”

“What the heck is all the smoke?” Devon says, waving his hands as he walks in the kitchen with Quinn and Aiden.

“Do I need to get the fire extinguisher?” Quinn adds.

“Nah. Jack just ruined Elena’s favorite meal,” Giselle says.

“Slipping, old man. Did you hesitate? Need me to run out and grab some KFC?” Aiden gives me a grin.

“I got distracted,” I exclaim. This is a big day . . .

“By his dancing and singing,” Giselle says as she pops a piece of fried okra in her mouth. “Did you always want to be a pop star, Jack? Stick with football, ’kay?”

“He tried; bless his heart,” Cynthia says. “Good thing I brought a backup.” She nudges Giselle. “Go get the one I brought in the car. It’s in a container in the back seat.”

I’m not surprised at all that she brought another chicken casserole, but I act indignant. “You didn’t think I could do it, even after you went over the recipe with me three times last week?”